Strong amid the rubble
by QueenBossBitch
Summary: AU. It's just before Christmas 1940, the Manchester Blitz. Carla, a combat, nurse has returned from France but not for reasons that are easy to share. Liam, presumed MIA, happens upon the same near bombed out pub as she. They wander the rubble, admitting things they'd only tell each other as they try, almost in vain, to help an old man's wife.


"Right well, when I have the time to stop and smell the roses amidst the smoke and debris I will give it a go, shall I."

Dusting her hands on her muddied and bloodied apron she rolled her eyes at the asinine woman and walked - wobbly over broken cement and shards of glass - towards the pub.

A local tavern, opened amid the chaos of tears, blood and sirens; it was perhaps the most English site she'd ever seen.

"You alright Miss?" The bartender, a ginger moustached man wiping glasses asked. She nodded and glancing at her nurse's uniform he nodded that he understood.

"Whisky's on the 'ouse, love." He put it on the table before she'd even reached it.

She nodded, perhaps whispered "ta" rather hoarsely and drank it in one fell swoop.

She watched the bartender head to the door and help in a man with a broken leg. He was right enough, tonight there was little point in seeking help for such an injury.

"How many are there? or how many…"

"Hundreds…" She said, only looking over her shoulder after a few moments. "I'd imagine."

"You from the local then?" The wounded man asked.

"No, was in France… was sent back to… " choosing not to reveal the reason she was back, she motioned that she'd like another drink. The ginger barkeep moved to oblige as the man and his friend took a seat.

"Flat feet, me." The man said. He looked as if he might laugh.

"You want me to look at that?"

"No, it's okay miss, reckon you've seen more than your share tonight and abroad."

"Every bit is more than anyone's share." She said walking toward him. Crouching down she moved to examine the leg that was stretched out in front of him.

"You're lucky… so much as people going about their days and being bombed are." She said, a weak smile rose to meet him. His eyes glistened and he smiled as halfheartedly as she did.

"Bet you thought you were safe with them feet." She said.

"No miss," he said. "Knew those gerries would find a way to come 'ere."

"Not for long eh, let's hope."

It was 1940 and every conversation, every letter ended with "let's hope."

"As it happens, I feel very lucky. I saw what was over at the other end of town… or what's left of that."

The man beside him was quiet no longer. "He bloody well ran over there to help is what he means."

"Is that how you got hurt?" She asked.

"Yes, well I think… ya know what's weird, I kept running. I just kept trying to get people away from this fire and I have no idea what or how I broken me leg."

"It's a small break...on a scale of breaks. You should be seen by a doctor soon… but if I was you, I'd have a drink first n'all."

"You deserve it. Running to trouble."

"Who is this?" She asked.

"My younger brother."

"Asthma." The other man said, answering as if his reason for not going to war was as good as his name these days.

He was grumpier, it made him look older. His concern and worry making him more handsome.

"Well, I thought…"

"You thought you could help is all." He muttered. "Hero… like you miss."

Carla pulled a small face at the remark.

"Just a nurse… "

"Just a saviour." The injured man said. "I'm Tim. This is my brother Sam."

"Carla," she managed and shook his hand. "Well tiny Tim, you'll be fine I dare say, but stay off the leg for now yeah… "

He smiled as she returned to her drink, a full one, waiting for her at the bar.

The commotion outside was not going to fade soon,but she'd done what she could over the past several hours… seven if she counted properly. She'd already opened the stitch in her side and was soaking through her gauze. Feeling faint and only a bit drunk, she sat down finally at a table and let the voices and sounds around her become white noise.

She didn't know how long had passed, or how long she'd been sitting there, when the doors opened again.

"Can we bring him in here?" The man said.

"No, I can't ...my wife."

"She'd be right behind wunt she." The man struggled to say, clearly carrting a man much larger than himself.

"Vera…"

"She'd be alright mate, we'll make sure of that and when she sees you, she'll want you well...so best sit tight."

"What's the matter?" Carla asked, walking to the old man. Perhaps the whisky was more than she thought, she'd ignored how familiar the voice was.

"Chest pain." the man said, his eyes on the old man as he removed his jacket. "Not much I can do about that right now but thought best he wait here until…"

She stopped still in her tracks when she saw him. "Liam."

His weary face was still every so boyish. "Carla."

She suppressed tears that bubbled to the surface. Her face was warm and her hands ice cold, she stood stalk still as he looked at her.

"You're…"

"Here" He said, confused as she was.

"They told me you were in France." He said.

"They told me you were missing." She said. "Or, they hinted at it."

"Went down and… well, was sent to recoop only last month."

"Last month?" She shock was evident in her voice as well as her face. No one had reached out to tell her by letter or otherwise that he'd been found okay. Relief gave partial way to anger and anger to crushing pain within seconds.

"They didn't..?" He stopped talking and looked at her side, a dark muddy colour appeared to be a stain but he knew it was blood beneath her dress and apron.

Before he could say anything she lunged to hug him, burying her face in his chest, her hand around the back of his head to keep him close.

"Y'alright" He said softly against her hair, kissing her gently.

She let a few tears mark his shirt and pulled away wiping her face. "You daft …" she trailed off. "Drinks on you at any rate."

He smiled and walked her to the bar.

The old man was now talking to Tim and Sam, who had brought him water.

"Why are you back?" He asked.

"It's… a long and complicated story."

"I hope one that means you don't have to go back… though not much of a night to claim we're safe here is it." He nodded as the ginger man passed him a tall drink.

"I wanted to stay…. sort of… but I couldn't for a bit. So you…."

"I'm on the mend, shockingly, and should go back within a few weeks."

He looked at her wedding ring as she twirled the glass absently.

"I haven't heard from you since…."

"Leave it to him to make such a grand exit eh."

"The story has evolved...at least from the cousins gathered round me bed recently. Apparently he took down a dozen luftwaffe." He laughed.

"Do they even think that's pos… of course they do," she said, rolling her eyes at memories of her less than liked relations.

"Well, reckon it's so crazy because mam and…"

"Reckon it's a better… or an alternative to what really happened."

"Aye." He nodded and down his drink.

"Corr, I've missed you." He said, finally looking her in the eye.

"More than you could possibly even know." She said in response, her eyes, however, fixed on her drink.

"Maybe we should go look for his wife…" She finally managed, looking at the rattled old man. At least he can think someone is doing something.

Liam nodded and walked with her to the door, stopping to wait for her as she knelt by the man.

"Now Mr…"

"Duckworth." He said, feebly but with mounting energy. "But you, you call me Jack."

"Well Jack, we're going out to out and look for your wife. Liam says he found you on the road… but I need to know your address."

"Aye, was on the road...at the pub, me." He choked back tears. "She didn't want me to go out again… but I wanted a pint and… oh god I should have stayed wi' 'er."

"Hush, just tell me where you live and we'll go check for you."

He have her the address and she patted his arm gently. "Chest pain okay."

"Crushing love, but for every other reason now."

She managed a weak nod and left.

Liam watched as she lead them down the streets, over broken glass and rubble, past shouts and cries and mangled Christmas trees.

"You see that part of the street yet?" She asked.

"No, badly hit I reckon but, there's always hope."

"I'd not have agreed before you walked in that pub, but perhaps there is."

He withheld the desire to put his arm around her and just walked beside her, taking charge of the directions when she seemed to be hit by a wave of fatigue.

"Is that someone else's blood?"

"On me?" She asked, looking down. "Bit of both I think."

"Carla, why are you here?"

"You know, us nurses have a funny gig," she spoke as she walked across a broken bench like a circus performer. "We get men half blown to bits in our tents and are told to either help the doctors… which let's face it, means do their work for them most times or help the men … well, die. We have the funniest job. Making men whole just to send them off again, each time knowing their chances of coming back in one piece must get slimmer and slimmer. How many times can someone be struck by lightning do ya think?

He shrugged and let her go on.

"Anyway, we get them, these men and sometimes they want to pretend you're their mother, God bless 'em, but more often than not their sweetheart - at least that's how the yanks put it. Most times the poor sods just need a knowing smile, a wee flirtation to feel like men even as they wonder about their legs, their site whatever it be… sometimes they only ask for contact , just a hand hold, just as they die…."

He stopped and she kept walking.

"That was hard, that was hell. War is hell," she said. " But…" she stopped and picked up a wallet laying on the floor. She didn't open it, she didn't want to know another story of another life lost.

"But the funniest bit about being a nurse is the friendly fire."

"Friendly fire?" He asked.

She turned and half smiled. "Aye, as it sounds. Being pierced by one of your own."

For a moment he looked at her side and wondered if there had been a gunshot wound. but after a moment he shook his head, chastising himself for not immediately knowing somehow.

"No." He said.

"Not a bullet, but still a wound." She said. "The men have seen things, that much we know. Hell, WE'VE seen things. We want to make them feel like heros when they die, as they try to live - which is often worse. We want to go home and talk about bravery like anyone else…."

She paused and put the wallet down, peeking inside. No identity card, somehow that helped.

"You can forgive a lot when you see that hell, you can forgive horrible words of the damned, cruel comments and even inappropriate hands but…"

"Friendly fire." He muttered, trying to get his head around it.

"His name was Frank. He was tall and not very attractive. I helped him when he had a minor head injury and broken arm. He liked me. You know, I only wore that bloody ring after Paul died so men would think and assume I belonged to someone else...sadly that can help. Frank didn't care about a brother in arms any more than he cared what 'no' or 'please stop' meant."

Liam's hands were in fists.

"In the end, I forget how far we got… or he got, rather, I remember hitting him over his already wounded head. He's okay. Or will be. Me, I dunno."

tbc.


End file.
